


something fatal about a portrait

by madwithmissing



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Divergent, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, The Picture of Dorian Gray inspired, baz is basil, look at me im writing something mostly cute, obviously, simon is dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28419345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwithmissing/pseuds/madwithmissing
Summary: I sniffle as I study Snow’s face, serene in the darkness. His eyes are closed in a lidded, smooth way, not a screwed-up, wrinkly way. I try to capture that with my pencil.I hate that I’m doing this.orbaz draws a picture of simon that bares too much of his soul.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	something fatal about a portrait

Imagine it. The smell of lavender wafting through the air on a warm spring breeze, smooth velvet beneath you. You watch as the man in front of you blinks, you study the way his jaw clenches and how his throat ripples as he swallows. He’s so beautiful and you get to stare at him, freely and with purpose. The pallet in your hand is digging slightly into your palm, there’s blue paint on your thumb, there’s hair in your eyes. The world sounds bright, for maybe it is, and your grey eyes are stinging, but in the best way, and the world understands you.

Now, imagine this: your cotton sheets are scratching your ankle and your hand aches as you grip your pencil. You squint, not because you can’t see in the dark, but because you can’t see that far. You’re trying to focus in on the boy sleeping in his bed across the room from you, trying to make out the intricacies of his face. The moon is your light and you’re hoping he doesn’t toss and turn too much. There’s lead all up the side of your pinky finger and your arm has fallen asleep due to the angle you’ve propped yourself up on. The world will never understand you.

Choose one. Make the right decision.

I, unlike you, was given no choices in this life. I am living the second option.

I sniffle as I study Snow’s face, serene in the darkness. His eyes are closed in a lidded, smooth way, not a screwed-up, wrinkly way. I try to capture that with my pencil. 

I hate that I’m doing this. For what was almost years, I couldn’t look at Snow at all, couldn’t face him, couldn’t face what I felt. But, now… well, now, I’ve decided that this doesn’t count. I’m doing this to better my art. I need a subject, and Snow just happens to be here. (I know this is creepy. You don’t have to tell me that it’s creepy.)

I scribble on another freckle and yes. It’s done. A picture of Simon Snow, looking just as he ought to, calm and young and beautiful.

I hide it just behind the flap of the book on my bedside table and fall asleep.

I do not dream of him. Good.

The next morning. just before Snow wakes up, I take the picture out to stare at it again. I no longer need to use my worn imagination to see Snow as I love to. This is it. I did it.

Snow shifts atop his bed and I flinch, dropping the paper. It flutters to the ground and settles somewhere I can’t see. Fuck. As quiet and quick as I can, I fall to the floor on hands and knees, searching frantically. 

“Baz?” I hear and I hop up as if my feet were on springs. 

I turn and Snow is rubbing his eyes, propped up on one arm.

“Snow?” I return indignantly.

“What’re you doing?”

I pause. Crowley. what  _ am  _ I doing?

“I dropped my hairbrush and I was picking it up. Is that alright by you?” I answer, remembering I’m a practised liar.

“Oh, sod off.”

I turn and grab what I need for a shower, trying to pretend like I’m not panicking slightly.  _ It’s alright. He won’t find it. _

I take the fastest shower of my life.

I pull up my pants and trousers while my legs are still dripping and rush out into our room with my shirt unbuttoned.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring into the doorway and now at me, is Simon Snow, holding a pencil-drawn picture of him. My picture.

“It was by my bed…” he says, barely audible.

I huff.

“Baz…” he starts softly. 

There is nothing for me to say that would be anything of a good idea. So, I go defensive. (I always do. It’s my comfort area.)

“That’s not yours, Snow. Give it here.”

I hold out my hand as if he’ll give it back that easy.

“It  _ is  _ mine,” he breathes, looking up at me. Crowley, he’s crying. And it’s not even in that pathetic, giant tears mess way I can make fun of him for. It’s elegant. I hate him for being so pretty right now.

“It’s me, Baz,” he continues, clutching it to his chest.

I want to take it back but what would be the good of me lunging at him right now? And what would be the good of me denying that it’s him? It  _ is  _ him.

“Simon, please,” I plead, exasperated.

He looks up at me, eyes wide, stands, sighs, and gives it back. (I know it’s because I called him Simon. Haven’t done that in years.)

I don’t know what to do now. I stay standing, frozen.

“You’re a good artist, Baz.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I mean it.”

I meet his blue eyes. “Look, I…”

“You don’t have to,” he offers.

“No,” I start. I have to now. “Snow… I’m sorry.”

His eyes widen, not in a surprised way, but more like… he pities me.

He moves quickly and I flinch because I really am afraid of him now and then I feel his hand on mine. I escape his gaze and stare instead at his hand, coming slowly around my own.

“Snow.” I don’t know what he’s doing, but I know I don’t like it. Feels like he’s fucking with me.

“Just tell me why,” he says, as if that’s not the hardest thing I could ever do.

“No,” I answer, quiet. He’s made me tender.

He puts his other hand softly on my cheek. My mind takes a pause, nothing inside me works. I meet his eyes.

“Please,” he pleads and I hate him. I hate him so much.

And then, I say, “I want to kiss you so badly right now.”

Fuck it.

I’ve given up.

But, then, he says, “Then do it.”

So I think of nothing else and I do.

What a moment. What a morning. What a life.

I shouldn’t really say that  _ I _ kiss  _ him _ because the second our lips touch, his hand comes around to rest on the back of my neck, pulling me in closer. He’s breathing into it, lighting a fire so hot I melt into him. I hate him for making me want to forget about everything. All of it. I hold the picture tighter in my hand.

I pull away. I can’t take much more of this.

Still a bit breathless, I say, “I drew my soul onto that paper. Had to.”

He smiles at me and his fingers tangle in the back of my hair. “You made me look damn good.”

I let out a little laugh. Nothing matters.

He holds my hand tighter. Or some things matter.

“How do you do it, Baz?” he asks, searching my eyes.

“It all feels like a wave, building. I keep it all in until I can’t anymore. Then I let go,  _ fucking unleash _ .”

He laughs at me. “Everything’s ruthless with you.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, aware that I am currently holding two versions of Simon Snow.

“I’m beginning to think it’s not.”

Imagine this: you are holding the boy you love by the waist. He is holding you by the neck. 

There is something beautiful in a moment so simple.

Neither of you have to say it. You both know.

And the air smells like rosewater and a little bit like smoke.

I made this choice. 

He understands me.


End file.
